


In Bloom

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [90]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Background Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-24 07:36:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>February, 2012: England forces a reluctant Northern Ireland to expand his social circle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**18th February, 2012; Berlin, Germany**

  
  
Following the whole matchmaking nonsense with France, Wales had decided that Northern Ireland needed to spend more time with nations who weren't family.  
  
'You should get to know more of our kind,' he'd said. 'You don't want to end up like me, do you?'  
  
Whilst the possibility of ending up having to settle for a horrible boyfriend like Wales' was enough to make anyone pause and seriously reconsider their life choices, Northern Ireland had carefully weighed up the pros and cons, and decided he couldn't be arsed. Dealing with the dysfunctional chaos of people he was actually related to and therefore couldn't avoid was stressful enough, and he couldn't see how adding more variables to that could do anything other than make things worse.  
  
Telling Wales it was a crap idea and he didn't want to do it was easy enough, because the only fallout from doing so was that Wales got a little mopey, looking at Northern Ireland with huge, sad eyes which seemed to say, 'You're breaking my heart here, North'. What Wales' mouth had snapped in an extremely pissy tone, though, was, 'It was only a bloody suggestion', because not even Wales went around actually saying stuff like that out loud.  
  
Unfortunately for Northern Ireland, word of Wales' suggestion got back to England, and refusing _him_ had far direr consequences than feeling a little guilty that Wales might well go and have a bit of a cry later because he felt like a shite older brother. There would be shouting, and the dredging up of ancient transgressions as leverage, and perhaps, if he got frustrated enough, the playing of England's trump card: having the long-threatened conversation with their boss, wherein he would be informed that England thought Northern Ireland was far too young to be fending for himself so much, and wouldn't it be better if he moved back into England's house full time?  
  
And so almost before England could finish saying, 'Well, I think it's a splendid idea', Northern Ireland had found himself here in Berlin, waiting outside some blocky monstrosity of Seventies architecture for Scotland and Wales to turn up, and about to be subjected to almost twelve hours of Pan-European cultural exchange which a cabal of their bosses had decided was a good way to promote unity and understanding, or some such crap.      
  
"Cheer up," England says after he and Northern Ireland have been standing by the conference centre's main entrance for what feels like at least half an hour. "It’ll be fun."  
  
Which would be more convincing if England didn't sound like he was spitting up the words because they tasted of bile, and if Northern Ireland had perhaps just met him on the street and was thus completely unaware that there were very few things England enjoyed less than being forced to mingle and take part in 'planned activities'.  
  
"No it won't," Northern Ireland says, rolling his eyes.  
  
England's brows descend, and a keen light kindles in the depths of his eyes which heralds the approach of one of his fiercer glares. Thankfully, Scotland's noisy arrival distracts England sufficiently that Northern Ireland's spared the full brunt of the glare when it finally ignites, as it quickly swings in Scotland's direction instead.  
  
"Fuck off, England," Scotland responds brightly, insulated from the glare's full power both by what smells like a particularly thick protective layer of alcohol, even though it's not even noon, and his general indifference to being the focus of England's ire. Sometimes, Northern Ireland is a little bit in awe of Scotland.  
  
Wales, on the other hand, smiles apologetically at England as he trails in behind Scotland, and then offers Northern Ireland a sympathetic look, because Wales is never anything less than scrupulously impartial when circumstances allow.  
  
"Sorry, _Lloegr_ ," he says, "we -"  
  
"Got lost walking the _few hundred feet_ from our hotel?" England finishes for him, a flush slowly creeping up his neck from beneath his collar. "Were kidnapped and forced at gunpoint to go to a pub, maybe?"  
  
"Fucking hell," Scotland says, the broad smile he had greeted them with eroding with astonishing rapidity. "It was a couple of pints. You don't expect me to face this thing sober, do you?"  
  
"I hope you're not planning on over-indulging." England's voice is low and strained, sounding very much like he's about to have an attack of the vapours.  
  
Sometimes, England treats them all as though they're a collective embarrassing uncle; the type who would get shitfaced at weddings, try to start a fight with the groom, creep on the bridesmaids, and then throw up on the back of the bride's dress. Northern Ireland finds England's hypocritical primness regarding their behaviour a constant source of black amusement, but it never fails to piss Scotland off, probably because he resents being lectured on his manners by his little brother.    
  
Scotland's smile disappears completely, replaced by an ugly scowl. "Don't even start with that crap, England. It's not as if you won't be flat on your back in a corner somewhere a couple of hours in, blubbering about America. Even now, like you never even -"  
  
"Right," Wales says, clapping his hands together, his voice upbeat and over-loud, "shouldn't we be getting a move on?"  
  
The interruption visibly startles both Scotland and England, and they take a step back from each other. Their backs, which had begun arching like a cat's does as it defends its territory, slowly relax, and Scotland unclenches his right hand from the fist it had formed.  
  
The four of them stand in silence for a moment, carefully not making eye contact, until Scotland finally says, "I'm going to stick out like a fucking sore thumb, aren't I, seeing as though I'm the only one who bothered to get dressed up for this thing."  
  
Their invitations had asked that they wear their national costumes, but Northern Ireland had refused, England technically didn't have one (and the unofficial one he did have would have made him look like a complete cock), and Wales had (very conveniently, Northern Ireland thinks) forgotten to pack anything suitable.  
  
Scotland needs no excuse to wear a kilt, however, and is proudly decked out in the Black Watch tartan one he usually wears as part of his formal Highland suit, though he's paired it instead with his walking boots and a black T-shirt with a small hole at the top where the collar's parting company with the rest of the fabric. France will no doubt give Scotland grief about that, but Northern Ireland suspects his exasperation is destined to be short lived.  
  
France had got very, very drunk at Christmas, blocked Northern Ireland's escape from the dining room, and then subjected him to a lengthy exultation of the finer qualities of kilts, which started at 'easy access' and only went downhill from there. By the end, Northern Ireland had been quite willing to die if it meant he would have no memory of what had been said, but despite his fervent prayers, he still remembers every word.  
  
He can only hope that France is able to restrain himself from showing his appreciation until he gets Scotland back to the hotel.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Whoever decorated the cavernous function room certainly hasn't scrimped on the flags.

They're everywhere: hanging off the back of chairs, sprouting in clumps out of plant pots, and covering almost every square inch of the sterile beige walls. Even the optics at the bar are draped with bunting made out of tiny triangular flags. It is, quite frankly, a bit of an eyesore.

"What do you fancy, Mikey?" Scotland asks, leaning across the bar so he can better see how the glass fronted fridges behind it are stocked. "They've got British beer, Danish, German..." He nods decisively at the last, because clearly the question had been a red herring, and Northern Ireland didn't really have a choice after all. "We'll have two of those, please," he says to the barman, pointing at the bottles instead of asking for them by name, presumably because he can't pronounce it.

Northern Ireland's beer is intercepted by England, who appears out of nowhere (seriously nowhere; he hadn't been anywhere in view before he suddenly materialised at Northern Ireland's side) to snatch the bottle out of the barman's hand.

"You're too young for that," he says chidingly, even though Northern Ireland's been drinking for decades back home with his knowledge (if not his enthusiastic approval), and by his own admission, England himself used to put whiskey in Northern Ireland's milk to knock him out when he was a baby. "You can have lemonade or something."

"Give it him back, Wart," Scotland says, his tone exasperated. "It's a bit late to start trying to fool anyone you're anything other than a fucking terrible role model. I'm sure no-one will faint away with shock if they find out we let him drink."

England's scoffs dismissively - which is pretty much proof positive that Scotland had got his motivation spot on - and passes the bottle back to Northern Ireland, probably because he cares more about proving Scotland wrong than he ever could proving the contrary to the rest of Europe.

“Just the one, mind, Michael; I don’t want to be carrying you out of here at the end of the night,” he says with a familiar sort of forced joviality that sounds far more threatening to Northern Ireland than any stern tone ever could. Before England turns to leave again, he gives Scotland and Northern Ireland each a sheet of paper with an equally ominous-sounding, “This is the schedule for the day’s events.”

“There’s a _schedule_?” Scotland’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. “Jesus Christ.”

Northern Ireland quickly skims over the list, which seems to consist mainly of such delights as demonstrations of traditional basket weaving, and performances of folk music; the sort of thing that will make every minute stretch out like an hour. He can tell that Scotland’s reached the end of the page when a low groan drifts up from beside him.     

“Two hours of dancing?” he says, sounding pained. “Well, at least they don’t expect us to take part.” There’s a small pause as he reads the rest of the final bullet point. “Oh, they do. Fucking fantastic. Why the hell did I agree to come here?”

“Because you’re so far under the thumb that it’s a wonder you can move,” Northern Ireland says, but quietly, so Scotland can’t hear. Some things need to be said, but they don’t need to be said loudly enough that they risk him getting his arse kicked. “I was press-ganged into it,” he adds at a slightly higher volume, “you have no excuse.”

Scotland snorts. “You think England’s bad? He’s got nothing on France when he’s got his heart set on something. Nothing at all.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Northern Ireland has found the perfect spot to hide away from the display of clog making, concealed by an enormous Norwegian flag that has come unfixed from its moorings at the top, and is slowly peeling away from the wall. For the moment, it forms a handy sort of tent as it drapes across the table beneath it, in which Northern Ireland can sit and drink his beer with only one hand and part of one leg sticking out sufficiently that they might betray his position if anyone cared to look from just the right angle.

What makes his quiet sanctuary even more perfect is that he can still see the far end of the room, near the bar, where Wales seems to be having an argument with his horrible boyfriend, which is far more entertaining than clogs. He can’t hear the obviously harsh words they’re exchanging, so he fills them in with how he thinks one of their private conversations might go.

‘I’m a complete and utter wanker,’ he imagines Wales’ horrible boyfriend saying, because he is, and Northern Ireland’s sure it would do him good to admit that. ‘Remember how I was a total arse at Hogmanay, and poor Northern Ireland and England missed half of the party because I pissed Scotland off so badly that he wanted to punch me, and they had to drag him out to the garage to calm down? Which took three hours, because that’s how awful I am.’

Real Wales touches his horrible boyfriend on the arm with far more gentleness than he's entitled to, and imaginary Wales says, ‘They like freezing their tits off standing around in an unheated room in the middle of winter. That’s how they celebrate! It had nothing to do with you,’ because any Wales, regardless of his degree of corporeality, is too nice for his own good.

But because Wales’ boyfriend is horrible, _and_ an arse, _and_ a wanker, he shrugs off Wales’ hand, then stomps away scowling, hopefully to inflict his awfulness on someone more deserving of it than Northern Ireland’s brother. Wales looks inexplicably morose as he watches him leave, his shoulders drooping dejectedly.

It only lasts for a moment, however, before Wales straightens up, grabs another drink from the bar, and then makes a beeline straight for Northern Ireland’s hideout, which obviously isn’t quite so secret as he had assumed.

“Sometimes I wonder why I bother,” Wales says with a lopsided smile when he slumps onto the seat next to Northern Ireland.

Northern Ireland never stops wondering why Wales bothers, but he hesitates to ask his brother to explain what the hell’s going on in his head, because he’s scared the answer might have something to do with sex, and he still hasn’t quite recovered from the last time they had talked about _that_.

A couple of years back, when Northern Ireland was staying over in Cardiff, he had found a heavy chest tucked under Wales’ bed. He hadn’t thought twice about opening it, because most chests in Wales’ house were simply home to sentimental knick-knacks, and Northern Ireland had been bored enough at the time that listening to Wales drone on about the meaning he imbued his keepsakes with actually seemed like it might be an improvement.

The chest hadn’t contained locks of hair and fading sepia photographs, however. It was filled to the brim with _things_ made out of brightly coloured rubber, and leather, and straps, and so on, which made Northern Ireland cry out reflexively in dismayed alarm. He was still blinking in shock when Wales came skidding into the room, face pale and obviously convinced that some dreadful fate had befallen him.

And later, even though Wales was blushing so hard that he looked as if he might catch on fire, he had insisted that they sit down together and have a frank discussion about sex in the light of Northern Ireland’s discovery. Northern Ireland had been too dazed at the time to put up an argument, because, although there wasn’t anything in the chest he hadn’t seen in action countless times before on the internet, his brain refused to accept that they belonged to _Wales_. Wales who looks like an affable fucking _geography teacher_ or something, and, to Northern Ireland’s mind, people who look like geography teachers don’t have enormous collections of sex toys. They just don’t; especially if they're Northern Ireland’s _big brother_. It had turned his entire worldview upside down, and it taken him quite some time to adjust. So he bites his tongue and doesn’t comment, and eventually Wales sighs.

“He’ll calm down soon enough,” he says; cheerfully, like that’s something he’s actually looking forward to.

Northern Ireland despairs of him.


	2. Chapter 2

"Aren't you going to go after your horrible boyfriend, then?" Northern Ireland asks when it starts to look like Wales has settled in for the long haul.  
  
Wales' mouth tightens like he's sucking on a lemon. "I wish you and Scotland would stop calling him that."  
  
"But that's what he is," Northern Ireland protests.  
  
It doesn't make any sense. Wales might look like a geography teacher, but not a _hideous_ geography teacher or anything, at least as far as Northern can tell, and he's a nice bloke, so surely he could do better?  
  
Their whole relationship is weird, full stop, because Northern Ireland has seen Wales in love before, many times, and he’s never acted like he does now.  Wales in love is usually all poetry, starry eyes, and, given half the chance and sufficient booze, enough cloyingly sweet sentimentality to make even a card company blush and consider they might have gone a step too far.  
  
Wales at the moment is just Wales, though with a bit less crying than had become common in recent years, and a few more trips to the continent.  
  
It's something of a puzzle.  
  
"He's not horrible, he's…" Here Wales' brow furrows, and Northern Ireland imagines he's frantically leafing through his mental thesaurus. "He's just a little difficult," he eventually says. "Challenging."  
  
'Wales' challenging boyfriend' doesn't have the same ring to it, neither of truth nor acoustics, so Northern Ireland rejects the substitution. "Whatever," he says dismissively. "So, are you going to look for him or not?"  
  
Wales' eyebrows twitch, as though he's unsure whether he wants to lower them into a frown, or lift them in surprise. "Are you trying to get rid of me?"  
  
"Yes," Northern Ireland says. When Wales' eyebrows decide on surprise, and his mouth opens with a sharp, indrawn breath, he quickly adds, "You're giving away my position."  
  
The small gasp turns into a chuckle when Wales releases it. "Sorry, _brawd_. If it's any consolation, I didn't spot you myself; the fae showed me where you were."  
  
"I might have known," Northern Ireland mutters, because it comes as no surprise that the fae are treacherous little bastards.  
  
They haven't been too fond of him since he squashed one with a book back in the eighties. Although it had soon recovered, and the only long-term physical consequence of its flattening had been a slightly crooked wing, the grudge it nursed had proved far more enduring. It had even managed to get Wales, Scotland and England's fae on side somehow, despite their usual distrust of one another, and they all seemed eager to seize any opportunity to fuck with Northern Ireland's head, annoy him, and generally conspire to get him into trouble.  
  
"I could always cast a glamour over the table," Wales suggests, waving his hands around in a theatrical fashion that makes him look rather more like a cheesy stage magician than someone attempting real magic. "Then nobody would be able to see us, not even the fae."  
  
Northern Ireland raises an eyebrow sceptically. "You can do that?"  
  
"I've always been very good at glamours," Wales says, then immediately cringes afterwards, presumably worried that it might sound as if he were boasting. He quickly downplays the admission with, "It was just useful to learn how to disappear, growing up with Scotland and England, so I worked hard at it. I could teach you, if you like."      
  
Wales smiles encouragingly, no doubt hopeful that he's discovered the right hook to reel Northern Ireland into finally embracing their family's esoteric form of mystical claptrap. Northern Ireland sets him straight with a quick shake of his head, and a firm, "No, ta, Wales."  
  
England had worried when Northern Ireland was younger that he had no connection to the fae because he never talked about seeing them, never showed even the faintest spark of magic. Northern Ireland had, in fact, been aware of the fae's existence for almost as long as he'd been aware of his own, he just chose to ignore them. They creeped him out, with their sharp teeth and inky, feral eyes, and their unabashed curiosity towards him; watching him all the bloody time, whatever he was doing, and no matter if it were something that any reasonable person might like to do without an uninvited audience, like taking a bath, or, in later years, having a wank.  
  
It was the discovery that they wouldn't even let him do _that_ with any expectation of privacy which had caused him to snap and slam one of England's weightier encyclopaedias down on top of the nosiest of the buggers. He'd washed his hands of them entirely then, and his brothers had failed to persuade him in the interim that they were anything other than nasty little voyeurs with a penchant for mean-spirited tricks if they felt they were wronged in any way.  
  
He supposed they were probably useful back when his brothers were kids, in the days before guns, and tanks, and laser-guided fucking bombs, when a bit of fairy pyrotechnics bespoke some immense, unknowable power that might cow their enemies, but it all seemed a bit superfluous nowadays. Even magic seemed like a lot of work for very little reward, given that there didn't seem to be much it could do that modern technology couldn't, and without the time-consuming chanting, smelly herbs, and complicated sigils, at that.  
  
Besides, he's seen the looks England gets whenever he chats away to something no-one else can see, and he has no desire for any of that wary concern to be directed his way.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Scotland evades the glamour by using the simple tactic of following Wales back to the table when he returns from the bar, which serves to prove just how shite magic is.

He greets Northern Ireland in his usual way: placing one of his huge, spade-like hands on top of Northern Ireland's head, and then mussing his hair until it sticks up in ridiculous tufts, much like Scotland's own hair does. Northern Ireland doesn't protest, because Scotland just ruffles harder if he does, and he can fix it easily enough, whereas Scotland has to go around looking like he's had an unfortunate encounter with garden shears _every day_ , which makes Northern Ireland the winner in the long run, anyway.

"You missed the polka band," Scotland says, slapping Wales' back in a gesture which looks friendly on the surface, but Northern Ireland suspects is simply an excuse to wipe the hair gel from his hand onto Wales' shirt.

"That's a shame," Wales says with absolutely no inflection to his voice. "Were they any good?"  
   
"No idea. I didn't really hear anything they played, because your horrible boyfriend was bending my ear the whole time about…" Scotland shrugs. "Well, I've no idea what he was saying, because I wasn't really listening to him, either, but he was definitely very vehement about whatever it was."

Wales' mouth goes all lemony again, but he doesn't bother to scold Scotland for his word choice, doubtless because he knows Scotland will take even less notice of him than Northern Ireland. "Won't France be missing you," he says, his voice as sour as his expression.

"Naw," Scotland says, slumping down in the chair between Northern Ireland's and Wales'. "He's helping set up lunch, and, apparently, I can't even be trusted to reheat food without ruining it."  
     
He sounds quite cheerful about that, despite the inherent insult, which is probably due to a combination of his hatred of cooking, and being given the chance to sit around and drink beer for a while without being interrupted by random bursts of culture.

Northern Ireland's own spirits lift slightly at the mention of food. It's been almost three hours since his post-breakfast snack, and his stomach is beginning to protest at the neglect. "What time's that start, then?"

"Lost your schedule already?" Scotland asks, and Northern Ireland makes a noncommittal sound in response that he hopes doesn't sound too much like, 'I chucked it in the bin at the first opportunity because I didn't have any intention of doing any of the crap on it,' because Scotland will only give him grief if it does.

Scotland sighs his long-suffering, big-brotherly, 'I'm surrounded by idiots' sigh, and digs through his sporran for his own copy of the schedule. It's crumpled and lightly beer-stained, but apparently still readable, though Scotland does have to squint, the tip of his tongue trapped between his teeth as an aid to concentration. "We've got twenty minutes; best drink up," he says, nodding towards the beer Wales had bought Northern Ireland.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Unfortunately, they join the queue for lunch directly behind England, who wrinkles his nose and asks Northern Ireland if he's been drinking.

"Just the one, like you said," Northern Ireland says, catching Wales' eye and silently pleading with him to corroborate the story, instead of having one of the fits of dutiful honesty England occasionally inspires in him which cause him to throw his brothers to the wolves in order to salve his own conscience.

Wales seems distracted, however, ignoring Northern Ireland's fervent appeal in favour of staring at the food table again.

"I don't see anything Welsh on there," he says, scowling. "I thought this was meant to showcase _all_ of our national dishes."

Every platter of food has a small card set in front of it – they're too far away for Northern Ireland to read them, but he guesses that they're displaying the name of the dish – and tiny flags on toothpicks have been planted in the centre of each. The Welsh flag is notably absent.  
   
"Your national dish is cheese on toast," Scotland says, digging his elbow into Wales' ribs. "I'd be counting my blessings if I were you. Not exactly anything to boast about, is it."

Wales opens his mouth, presumably to protest that rarebit isn't just cheese on toast, nor is it his national dish, but France cuts in smoothly before he can speak.

"We will be serving cawl this evening, _Cymru_." The line doesn't sound particularly truthful to Northern Ireland's ears, a little too pat and a little too ingratiating, but Wales will doubtless be too drunk to notice if it's a lie come dinnertime, and it makes him smile gratefully now.

England, however, turns to glower at France, and snaps, "Hop it, Frog, and stop trying to cut in."

There's little that can raise England's hackles as quickly as someone trying to circumvent the orderly rules of queueing, and the fact that it's France makes the affront all the worse.

Scotland wraps an arm around France's waist and pulls him close against his side. "Lighten up, England," he says in a mocking tone, as though he thinks England is being unnecessarily stuffy, and as though his brothers haven't heard him complain about queue jumpers himself on too many occasions to accurately count. If they had, that tone clearly states, then they must have been suffering from some sort of collective hallucination at the time.

France clasps the back of Scotland's neck, and pulls him down into a kiss. England, Wales and Northern Ireland look elsewhere, and Northern Ireland can feel his cheeks begin to burn with a blush. He'd known about Scotland and France since he was a little kid, but they at least used to have the decency to pretend they weren't sleeping together. He'd never even seen them touch up until a couple of years ago, and now France can't seem to keep his hands to himself, though heaven only knows why, because Scotland always looks dishevelled, shaves about once a fortnight (if that), and dresses like he has only the most rudimentary knowledge about the function of clothes.

Northern Ireland much preferred it when they had tact, England was the world's oldest virgin, and Wales snuck around everyone's backs with humans he was too ashamed to introduce to the family, because at least then _he_ could pretend none of them had sex lives. Quite apart from the thought being slightly nauseating, they'd had a sort of unspoken camaraderie before – a shared sense of suffering cultivated through hundreds of Friday nights and tens of Valentine's Days with only the telly and each other for company – which Northern Ireland hadn't recognised until it was destroyed, and now finds he misses. He puts up with their various significant others because he has to, but that doesn't mean he has to like the situation (even though he _does_ like the nations involved, Wales' horrible boyfriend notwithstanding), and he can quietly seethe, glare at the floor, and wish France would piss off and leave his brother alone if he wants to. Which he does, and he proceeds to do all three.

Eventually, France grows tired of doing whatever unsavoury thing he'd been perpetrating upon Scotland's person, and finally seems to notice Northern Ireland's presence, acknowledging it with a warm, "It's not often we have the pleasure of your company at this type of event, _Nord_."

"England's trying to marry him off," Scotland says with a dry chuckle that makes Northern Ireland's blood run cold.

He might, admittedly, have one or two unresolved issues with England, Scotland and Wales not being single anymore, but he's quite happy being so himself. Nothing he's observed of his brothers' experiences has managed to persuade him that romantic relationships aren't far more trouble than they're worth.

England, however, dismisses Scotland's words with a curt, "I most certainly am not. He's here to make friends, not…" His face screws up in obvious disgust. "He's too young for that sort of thing, so you'd best put it right out of your head, France."

Northern Ireland is more than old enough – his earliest memories are extremely fuzzy, but he's he knows he's at least ninety, for fuck's sake, and everything appears to work the way it should, even if he's only ever tested it on solo flights – but for once, he's glad for England's insistence on treating him as though the last few decades and couple of feet of growth never happened. There's no way on earth he wants France to have any encouragement in playing matchmaker for _him_.

France makes all the right noises in response – 'Of course,' and 'I wouldn't dream of such a thing, _Angleterre_.' – but Northern Ireland doesn't think they sound at all convincing, and resolves to make himself even more scarce than before the moment he finishes his lunch.


	3. Chapter 3

Northern Ireland is so engrossed in deliberating between taking another helping of pierogies or polenta (or perhaps both?), that he doesn't sense he's no longer alone until a quiet, " _Nord_ ," is purred into his ear.  
  
The low murmur resonates with something deep in Northern Ireland's hindbrain, triggering his fight or flight response, but as he's trapped between the buffet table ahead and to the sides and France behind, and his only weapon is a plate heaped high with pasta and meatballs, neither seems a particularly viable response.  
  
"Yes?" he tries instead, for a lack of any other options. His voice cracks somewhere around the middle of the word, making the rest sound a little strained and embarrassingly squeaky.  
  
"I'd like you to come with me," France says, all hushed and silky, and fuck, _fuck_ , Ireland had warned him this might happen one day.  
  
Well, she hadn't warned _him_ exactly. It had been the end of a very long, very alcohol filled evening, and Northern Ireland had been nodding off, slumped against Wales' shoulder because the beer seemed to have dissolved all of his bones, when she'd told their brother, 'I think he's aiming to collect the full set one day, you know. It's two down, three to go, and you're probably next on his list, seeing as though you're less likely to rip his bollocks off than England.'  
  
Wales had laughed, assured her that he'd be on his guard, and Northern Ireland had very briefly been disturbed by the intimation that Ireland had at some point slept with France before becoming distracted by far weightier concerns: to whit, how to reconcile his need for a piss with the fact that he could no longer feel his legs.  
  
He hasn't given that overheard conversation a second thought until now, because there's never been any prior indication that France thinks of him as anything other than a child. He's just as inveterate a hair-ruffler as Scotland, and will even, on occasion, feel the need to pinch Northern Ireland cheeks (which _hurts_ , because Northern Ireland doesn't exactly have a cushioning excess of cheek), and coo about how 'cute' he is, in a syrupy tone usually reserved for kittens and babies. He tells Northern Ireland off when he's slouching, tuts over the state of his clothes or the length of his hair, and lectures him about smoking with almost as much conversionary zeal as England does.  
  
And because Northern Ireland hasn't given it a second thought, he's never considered what he might do if that view were ever to change. He should have been studying England, whose ability to rebuff France's advances has been honed down to a fine art over the centuries, instead of naively believing he'd never have to learn.  
  
He didn't, though, so all he can think of to say is, "I haven't finished my lunch yet," which, although it might be the truth, is probably not something France would consider an insurmountable obstacle strewn across the path of his pursuit.  
  
In fact, he clears it without even breaking his stride, pointing out, "You've already eaten two full plates."  
  
"And I have room left for thirds," Northern Ireland insists, because there is still that small space stomach remaining; the space he's sure would be filled neatly by pasta and meatballs, and pierogies and/or polenta.  
  
France chuckles in a breathy way that Northern Ireland thinks sounds vaguely obscene; not the sort of chuckle that someone should be using in a public place, and _definitely_ not the sort someone should be directing towards their boyfriend's little brother. "I don't know where you put it all."  
  
Northern Ireland has heard that particular line too many times to count, usually delivered by England as he mournfully contemplates the barren state of his fridge. His reply, therefore, is both defensive and reflexive. "I'm a growing lad."  
  
England typically rebuts that Northern Ireland hasn't even grown an inch in the last three years, and perhaps he might like to consider the fact that he could just be greedy? (Doesn't he know that England's not made of money? And yet another trip to fucking Waitrose wasn't how he'd been planning on spending his Saturday, North.)  
  
France, however, simply hums in a sceptical sounding way, and the skin at the small of Northern Ireland's back starts to prickle uncomfortably, suggesting that France is more than likely looking at his arse.  
  
There's not much to see, as Northern Ireland seems to be unlucky enough to have inherited England's flat arse along with his knobbly knees, but the principle's the same. France shouldn't be going around looking at other people's arses. Usually, when he did, it would ping Scotland's radar if he was somewhere in the vicinity, causing him to hurry over so he could loom, and scowl, and generally look like it would make his day if he got to feed someone their own teeth.  
  
But Scotland's radar must be faulty for once, because he doesn't appear in time to stop France from curling his fingers around Northern Ireland's wrist. " _Nord_ , I want –"  
  
"Fucking hell, France," Northern Ireland shakes his arm free, and whirls around to face the other nation; feeling desperate enough to stop stalling and simply be blunt, "you're my brother-in-law."  
  
"What?" France's expression shifts – his smile flattening out, and the skin around his eyes tightening – reshaping itself into something a little wilder looking that Northern Ireland hopes reflects a twinge of guilt. "I'm not… I'm not your _brother-in-law_."  
  
He says the term with enough horrified disgust that it might as well be a swear word, which suggests his reaction isn't so much born of guilt as consternation about the institution its usage implies. It's not exactly the result Northern Ireland was hoping for, but, he thinks as France takes a sudden step backwards as though the thought of getting hitched to Scotland has sent him reeling, it is something he can work with.  
  
"Maybe not yet," he says, shuffling forward himself now France has given him a little room to manoeuvre. Just a few more inches, and he'll be able to make a break for it without first having to knock France onto his arse. "But I've seen Scotland looking longingly at the ring displays in jeweller's windows a time or two, you know."  
  
"You have?" France asks, his face slowly draining of all colour.  
  
Northern Ireland nods vigorously, even though he's never seen anything of the sort. He doesn't feel too bad for the deception, however, because he wouldn't be surprised to discover that Scotland _did_ do that sort of thing when he was on his own, along with doodling ' _Mr and Mr République Française_ ' in the margins of his notes to kill time in boring meetings and other such nonsense, because he was that far gone. He'd never actually _ask_ , though, Northern Ireland is sure of that.  
  
Nevertheless, he says, "He'll probably pop the question any day now. That's how much he likes you. So imagine how devastated he'd be if he found out you'd be hitting on me."  
  
"Hitting on…" France's stumbling retreat stops dead, and he lets out a short bark of laughter. "I'm not 'hitting on' you, _Nord_."  
  
"You're not?" The sense of relief is enormous, albeit still not all-encompassing. "What _do_ you want, then?"       
  
"I simply wanted to introduce you to some of the other nations. That is why you're here, isn't it?"  
  
"That's why England forced me to come," Northern Ireland amends. A little more of his tension drains away. "And I _really_ don't want to get set up with anyone, France."  
  
France waves the clarification away easily, as though it was something not even worth considering. "I told your brother I wouldn't, didn't I? If it sets your mind at ease, Scotland and _Cymru_ made a point of extracting the same promise from me, too."  
  
It does, and Northern Ireland's relief can complete itself. It does have a small pang of guilt trailing at its heels, however. "Me and Wales do call you our brother-in-law, but it's just a bit of a joke," he offers, "because it feels like you are sometimes. Scotland's not going to propose." 'As far as I know,' remains unsaid, because he's supposed to be soothing France's fears, after all.  
  
The breadth of France's smile suggests he feels just as relieved as Northern Ireland.  


 

 

* * *

 

 

Northern Ireland had hoped that France might start out small; take him to meet a nation that he knows a little already, and work up from there. Like Spain, perhaps, who is a sort of in-law, too, and whom Northern Ireland has made awkward conversation with on a couple of occasions when England had been strong-armed into using a rather broader, more inclusive definition of 'family' than he'd prefer for some of their recent family functions.

France didn't even pause as they passed by the table Spain was sharing with Portugal, however. Apparently, France's sights were set a little higher, and the fact that Northern Ireland actually _likes_ Portugal and would have enjoyed chatting with her for a while would have made things far too easy.

No, France was making a determined line straight for Germany, to whom Northern Ireland had said about three words in his entire life.

A couple of decades back, England had been seized by a sudden and mercifully short-lived desire that Northern Ireland should start accompanying him to meetings to improve his understanding of the political process. They'd managed one G-8 and one World meeting before England gave up on the whole thing, presumably because he was so sick of Northern Ireland whinging about being bored (Northern Ireland considered it one of his more successful plans, even if it was originally Scotland's idea).

Northern Ireland had come away from the experience convinced of three things: one, that he hadn't needed to act a great deal, as the meetings were even more boring than he'd been led to believe; two, that it really was damn near impossible to get a decent cup of tea on the continent; and three, that Germany was very, very intimidating.

Less intimidating, it turns out, when wearing lederhosen – because leather shorts are a great leveller – but he still doesn't exactly look approachable, standing there alone, reading a poster detailing the various breads of Europe with all the intensity of someone studying for a test.

"He looks busy, France," Northern Ireland says. "Maybe we should come back later."

"Nonsense," France says, linking his arm through Northern Ireland's to guide his faltering steps. Perhaps he'd heard the, 'Or not at all,' Northern Ireland had thought but assumed wouldn't seep into his voice. "He'll be delighted to see us."

He doesn't look particularly delighted when he turns away from the poster at France's cry of, " _Allemagne_!" In fact, Northern Ireland's sure he sees a brief flash of irritation pass across Germany's face, quickly smoothed away behind a mask of polite interest, which doesn't exactly fill him with confidence for the conversation ahead.

" _Frankreich_ ," Germany says, nodding towards France in acknowledgement. All Northern Ireland receives, however, is a slightly apologetic smile which suggests that Germany doesn't recognise him.

"This is _Nord_ ," France says, obviously forgetting that no-one outside the family calls Northern Ireland that, and the nickname will mean absolutely nothing to Germany. " _Angleterre_ 's brother."

Despite the small, confused furrow that appears at Germany's brow, bespeaking a measure of mental calculation, it's not particularly advanced mathematics ('England' + 'Brother who's going out with France' + 'Brother who broke Nice Italy's nose' = 'Great Britain'; 'United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland' – 'Great Britain' = 'Northern Ireland'), and so he quickly arrives at the answer, " _Nordirland_?"

"Hi," Northern Ireland holds out his hand, and it is shaken firmly if somewhat perfunctorily, dropped after a couple of heartbeat's contact.

Unfortunately, England's many etiquette lessons hadn't really prepared Northern Ireland for a great deal beyond the initial handshake at these sorts of occasions. He does know that now is the time for small talk, but England had never been able to furnish him with a wealth of suitable topics to chose from, given that he's hardly the most skilled of raconteurs himself.

(' _You could ask them about their job_ ,' he remembers his brother saying, face screwed tight in such deep concentration that it looked rather more like Northern Ireland had actually asked him to recall pi to thirty decimal places, instead. " _Their hobbies, maybe? And if you're desperate, there's always the weather_.')

Northern Ireland can't exactly ask Germany what he does for a living, it’s very unlikely they share any hobbies in common, and weather's a home thing – he doubts anyone could be as fascinated with the damn stuff as the British – so he's pretty much shit out of ideas.

Thankfully, France steps into the breach, starting on about his issues with some new EU policy; one which England's told Northern Ireland is a little contentious, and France apparently has a particular bee in his bonnet over.

As Germany's eyes glaze over, Northern Ireland begins to suspect that he has, in all probability, heard this entire spiel about a hundred times before, and would very much have liked to get through his day without hearing it again. It would certainly explain his quickly-concealed look of irritation when he first saw them. Northern Ireland also suspects that France had used introducing them merely as an excuse to create an opportunity to bang on about it once more, because poor Germany could hardly have ignored them even if he'd wanted to without looking like a massive wanker.

Although Northern Ireland does feel a certain amount of sympathy for Germany, it certainly isn't great enough that he wishes France would shut up. This way, at least, neither of them is going to either notice or care if he has nothing to contribute to the conversation.


	4. Chapter 4

Twenty minutes later, Northern Ireland’s feeling of gratitude has diminished considerably.  
  
He has, over the years, learnt to derive a certain amount of entertainment from watching arguments from the periphery. Given that he has grown up in the company of three people can’t so much as breathe the same air as each other without at least one getting affronted by the way the others inhale, developing that particular skill was essential so that he didn’t spend his entire life stressed, upset, and scared that he was going to end up the product of some bizarre form of a broken home.  
  
His brothers’ arguments do have a fair amount of value as a spectator sport, though, due to their high likelihood of containing smashed furniture, face punching, and the opportunity to expand the scatological portion of his _Gàidhlig_ and Welsh vocabulary.  
  
France and Germany’s disagreement, on the other hand, involves far too many facts, figures, and ‘I think you’ll find it is _you_ who doesn’t appreciate the intricacies of the Common Agricultural Policy’s and not enough calling each other ‘pustulant arseholes’ and threatening to ram heads into walls to be even slightly interesting.  
  
Northern Ireland longs to escape, but England’s etiquette lessons have proven themselves inadequate yet again, as they have failed to furnish him with any effective ways of extricating himself from unwelcome company beyond inventing polite fictions about urgently having some place else he needs to be. France and Germany haven’t let up for long enough for him to throw in so much as a quick, ‘Got to go, just remembered I forgot to switch off the cat,’ however.  
  
Added to which, France has tangled his fingers in the fabric of Northern Ireland’s T-shirt, the heel his palm pressed tight against the small of Northern Ireland’s back, as though he’s using him as a support to brace himself so that he doesn’t get blown off his feet by the magnitude of Germany’s misapprehensions regarding wheat tariffs. If Northern Ireland did just put his head down and make a run for it, as he’s severely tempted to do, he’d likely snap France’s wrist in the process.  
  
His third helping of lunch had helped ease things for a little while, but that’s now long gone; nothing left behind but a small smear of spicy tomato sauce. (England had tutted Northern Ireland’s preference for licking his plates clean out of him decades ago, but he’s desperate enough that he finds himself tempted to revert to bad habits past all the same.)  
  
He looks longingly towards the table his brothers have claimed once again, and he’s disheartened to note that England seems to be in the process of emphasising some point or other by jabbing his fork at Scotland. The possibility of not being able to witness Scotland’s usual reaction to that sort of behaviour – namely grabbing hold of the offending utensil and then attempting to shove it up one of England’s nostrils – at close quarters makes his situation feel all the more bleak in comparison.  
  
Watching it at a distance and thus missing out on all the finer nuances of England’s latest horrified expression and Wales’ flailing attempts to pry their brothers apart seems like of a worse prospect than not seeing it at all, so Northern Ireland lets his gaze drift away from them.  
  
It wasn’t his best idea, it seems, as the only thing that confronts him on all sides are nations smiling, laughing and clearly having an infinitely better time than himself, until finally, amazingly, Ireland wanders into his field of vision, carrying a bowl of something that appears to be wonderfully gooey and drowning in chocolate.  
  
Even more fortuitously, and just as Northern Ireland had desperately hoped she would, his sister glances his way as she passes by.  
  
He fixes her with his most pleading expression, but she simply frowns at him, shaking her head in a bemused fashion that suggests she hasn’t got the faintest idea of the information he’s silently trying to convey to her.  
  
Northern Ireland has often thought that Ireland deliberately misunderstands him most of the time, but as she’s the only ray of hope Northern Ireland’s seen from the moment France whisked him away from the buffet table on his nefarious business, he’s willing to give her the benefit of the doubt for once.  
  
“I’m so bored that I might actually die,” Northern Ireland mouths at her. “Please help.”  
  
Ireland immediately turns her head aside and Northern Ireland curses himself as a fool for thinking that was anything close to the right action to take.  
  
From the very first moment they met, Ireland appears to have been entirely apathetic about his continuing existence. She’s made a few half-hearted attempts at wresting custody of him from England over the years, but Northern Ireland has always had the impression that they had been made at her bosses’ insistence rather than any interest in him as an entity. They go on a few excursions alone together every year to make stilted efforts towards getting to know each other better, but Northern Ireland suspects that they’re all actually instigated by his brothers and she would proceed to forget he exists if left to her own devices.  
  
His being struck down by fatal case of ennui would, therefore, probably not trouble her at all.  
  
To his surprise – and unending gratitude – Ireland eventually not only turns her attention back towards him, but her body, too, and she sidles up towards France and leans in close enough to whisper something in France’s ear. Something that interrupts his agricultural diatribe, tinges his cheeks pink, and, most importantly, makes him let go of Northern Ireland’s T-shirt and say, “Of course, _Irlande_. I’ve kept him from you all for far too long.”  
  
Northern Ireland can’t begin to guess what magical words she might have used to affect his escape, but as he’s finally free, it doesn’t really seem to matter a great deal. As soon as they move out of earshot, he thanks Ireland more profusely than he’s ever thanked her for anything before. (Not particularly difficult, as she’s absolute shite at buying Christmas gifts for him, so his thanks to her have always towards the slightly feeble, damning-with-faint-praise end of the scale before.)  
  
“Not a problem,” she says, watching him a little warily, as though worried he could be overcome with emotion to such an extent that he might do something excruciatingly embarrassing like try and kiss her cheek in his abandon. “England’s started winding himself up towards fretting about you, anyway, and it was a lot easier than having sit there and listen to him whinge.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, Ireland doesn’t hang around long enough to listen to England say anything at all; just drops Northern Ireland off at his brothers’ table and then disappears off into the crowd again, taking her bowl of delicious-looking dessert along with her.  
  
“I didn’t know they were serving pudding,” Northern Ireland says, morosely watching until it disappears from view before flopping down in the nearest free seat.  
  
“They’ve already cleared them away again,” England says. His voice sounds a little nasal, presumably because his left nostril is swollen almost shut. “You missed your chance because you were too busy consorting with the frog.”  
  
Before Northern Ireland can begin rending his clothes at the injustice of it all, Wales slides him a spoon and brimming bowl across the table. Its contents have bled together, melting chocolate, cream and rapidly dissolving cake combining to produce an unappetising milky brown sludge, but it still smells heavenly.  
  
“I thought I’d best save you some, in case France kept you too long,” Wales says, which is exactly why he’s Northern Ireland’s favourite brother.

Except for all of those times when it’s either Scotland or England instead.  
  
“What the fuck are they talking about, anyway?” Scotland asks, peering across the room at the still frantically yammering Germany and France. “Germany looks like he’s about to burst a blood vessel.”  
  
“Farming,” Northern Ireland tells him through his first heaping spoonful of pudding mush. “France is surprisingly passionate about legumes.”  
  
Scotland’s broad smile suggests that he finds this new-found aspect of France strangely attractive; a revelation so terrifying to contemplate that Northern Ireland’s only option is to take solace in sugar. He applies himself to his bowl with renewed vigour.  
  
When he’s scraped it clean, England asks, “So, how did you find Germany?”  
  
“Large and intimidating,” Northern Ireland says, “just the same as last time I met him. I think we failed to connect on any deeper level, given I didn’t get chance to speak to him at all.”  
  
Northern Ireland’s not especially bothered by the missed opportunity, but it seems to irritate England. He snorts loudly (and then winces, rubbing at his nose). “I don’t know why I let myself be persuaded to trust France to do right by you. Bastard can’t be counted on to do anything if it doesn’t benefit him directly,” he says, prompting a curt “Watch it,” from Scotland that England completely ignores. “I’ll just have to introduce you around myself, I suppose.”  
  
He sounds as though absolutely nothing would give him less pleasure than doing so, and seeing as though England doesn’t exactly get along swimmingly with most of Europe at the best of times anyway, by all accounts, Northern Ireland can only imagine that his resulting sullenness if he does force himself to do this duty as he seems to think he must will only make it harder to make a good first impression on anyone.  
  
“You’re all right, England,” Northern Ireland says, shaking his head. “Thanks and everything, but I don’t really need a chaperone. I’m sure I can manage on my own.”  
  
England looks unconvinced by that – likely surmising correctly that Northern Ireland would simply hide himself away again and not talk to anyone if left unsupervised – but support comes from an unexpected quarter when Scotland pipes up with, “Aye, you want to get meeting some of the other weans, right? Have a bit of fun without one of us lot breathing down your neck the whole time.”  
  
Northern Ireland hadn’t considered anything of the sort, but it seems as good an excuse as any to grab the opportunity for the good, long bout of solitude he’d prefer. He nods his head vigorously and says, “Exactly.”  
  
Wales looks delighted by this false display of enthusiasm. “It’d be nice for you to have some friends your age.”  
  
Northern Ireland is sure it wouldn’t. Scotland has seemed convinced of the same in the past, too, but to date it’s never gone well when he’s pushed Northern Ireland into making moves in that direction.  
  
He used to take Northern Ireland out to the park to play with human children when he was much younger, but it had ended badly from what he’s been told. Northern Ireland has no recollection of the event now, but he’d apparently given some poor boy a black eye by smacking him in the face with a toy truck then cried so noisily and at such great length that Scotland had been too embarrassed to ever return there with him.  
  
It had seemingly disturbed him so much that Scotlaand didn’t try again of for the rest of the century, but over the past couple of years he’s been determinedly foisting Northern Ireland off on his mate Duncan’s little brother Simon at every opportunity. Northern Ireland and Simon have had one exchange of words during their acquaintance that might be described as a conversation if one were extremely charitable, over the course of which they discovered they have absolutely nothing in common.  
  
Scotland appears to be incapable of retaining this fact, however, no matter how many times Northern Ireland has reminded him of it, and so he finds himself silently playing video games with Simon (or silently kicking a football to him, if Scotland decrees the weather’s too nice for them to be cooped up indoors) whenever he visits his brother, even though he’s certain neither of them get a single ounce of pleasure out of the experience.  
  
“Aye, it would,” he says, though, because he knows it will probably only worry his brothers if he doesn’t.


	5. Chapter 5

As England has the shark-like ability to pick out a single molecule of cigarette smoke from a whole cloud of deodorant/air freshener/breath spray, no matter how recently or liberally applied, one of the things that Northern Ireland had most been looking forward to concerning his relocation to a flat hundreds of miles away was the freedom to light up whenever and wherever he liked.  
  
He had expected to be puffing away like a chimney and/or Wales within days, but instead discovered that, absent the necessary subterfuge required to maintain his infrequent habit right under England's preternaturally sensitive nose, its attraction declined precipitously.  
  
Nowadays, it's something he only indulges in if he's more bored or anxious than usual, or so socially exhausted that he needs to sequester himself for a while to recuperate.  
  
As the morning had been generous enough with its shittiness that he'd already reached his comfortable limit on all three criteria not ten minutes after his prolonged lunch was finally concluded, liberating a packet of fags from Wales' lackadaisical possession and fleeing into solitude with them the moment his brothers were distracted by a particularly loud bit of culture happening nearby had seemed like the only sensible option.  
  
He retreats to the relative safety of the conference centre's car park, and then yet further to its far limit where, he hopes, distance will render him near invisible even if England does decide to pop his head out the front door in search of some 'fresh air' (read: a clandestine calming cigarette of his own, because he's an enormous hypocrite). Once he's settled himself in relative comfort atop the encircling low perimeter wall and behind the shielding bulk of a ridiculously oversized Mercedes, he smokes two cigarettes in quick succession.  
  
After his head has stopped spinning and the urge to vomit has passed, he smokes the third at a more leisurely pace, taking the opportunity to work on perfecting his smoke rings.  
  
It's a tricky undertaking, demanding precise timing, careful breath control, and so much of his concentration that he doesn't hear the approaching footsteps until they're far too close for him to retain even a speck of plausible deniability.  
  
Even so, he launches the half-smoked cigarette away from him with a quick, reflexive jerk of his right hand, and starts fanning his left in front of his face in a desperately futile attempt to clear the fogged air around it.  
  
"Don't panic," a voice says; warm and tinged with iniquitous amusement. "It's all right. It's only me."  
  
Ireland has a very odd definition of 'all right'. Northern Ireland can't imagine any circumstances short of absolute catastrophe that would lead her to voluntarily seek out his company.  
  
His stomach tightens in nervy anticipation, and he barks out, "What the hell do you want?"  
  
"To make your life miserable, of course. Or," Ireland perches herself on the wall next to him, an uneasy handsbreadth away, "perhaps I just wanted to talk to you."  
  
She has pretended not to see him on so many occasions – up to and including the time they were seated opposite each other at an official dinner – to avoid doing just that that Northern Ireland can't imagine her suggestion is meant as anything other than a joke. He laughs.  
  
Ireland does not. Her face pinches with a tight, thoughtful-looking frown, and Northern Ireland's stomach churns anew with an entirely different sort of fear. She is, he thinks, steeling herself for one of her sporadic attempts at being sisterly.  
  
He has never quite been able to recognise the Ireland that Scotland and Wales seem to know – who is, according to them, both a great comfort and dispenser of sage advice – in the one of his acquaintance, who struggles to think of anything to say to him and avoids physical contact with him just as assiduously as if his body were entirely constructed from acid-dipped razorblades.  
  
Their 'talks' have always been excruciatingly awkward on both sides, and Northern Ireland is convinced that they are, one and all, embarked upon for reasons of political expediency, as they sure as hell don't get anything out of them personally.  
  
"I think it would good for you to get to know more nations," Ireland says eventually, staring down at her hands.  
  
Or for reasons of England, apparently.  
  
If there's one thing Northern Ireland admires about Ireland, it's her ability to aggressively yet cheerfully ignore their brother's (many) demands, but he can scarcely credit any explanation other than her surrender to at least one of them now.  
  
"I know plenty," he says defensively. Whilst the revelation that she can be as weak to such things as the rest of them inspires a certain amount of pity, it's not sufficient to inspire him towards an agreement against his best interests.  
  
"Family doesn't count," Ireland says.  
  
"Fine," Northern Ireland huffs. "Then there's the weans..."  
  
"Technically, also family."  
  
"And Portugal and France..."  
  
"Might as well be family."  
  
Which is nothing more than blatantly unfair goalpost shifting. Northern Ireland scowls at his sister, but she ignores him.  
  
"So what you're saying," she continues, "is that you wouldn't see anybody at all if England wasn't around to arrange all his little get togethers and parties."  
  
There's a cashier at Northern Ireland's local supermarket who knows him well enough that she actually seems interested in his answer when she asks how he's doing, and he's on nodding terms with all of his nearest neighbours.  
  
"No," he says firmly. "There are some humans I'm friendly with."  
  
Ireland sighs. "And that's a good thing, too. But you can't rely on your people to be... to be _everything_ to you. You'll just end up heartbroken. Surely Wales has taught you that by now?"  
  
"Aye, but I've never had any intentions of _dating_ them. Scotland seems to do okay being friends with them, though, right?"  
  
"He does," Ireland agrees, "but what's he going to do five years down the line? Or ten? There's only so long people will be fooled into thinking that he's just ageing really, really well. He'll have to pack up and start again eventually when the rumours and questions start up, as they invariably do.  
  
"But you don't have to do that with our own kind, and they can understand you in a way that no-one else will ever be able to."  
  
Logically, Northern Ireland understands that to be true, but he has never been able to persuade himself to _believe_ it.  
  
He's never found the courage to admit it even to Wales – to whom he has confessed some truly humiliating things – but other nations don't even have to be Germany in order to intimidate him; they manage to do so just by existing.  
  
He's always so aware that he doesn't have the centuries of shared history most of the rest of them do, that often slender thread of commonality that has bound them together even through years of bloodshed, hatred, and violent separation. It ties them into a tight circle that he can't conceive of a way to break into.  
  
It makes him feel like an interloper. It makes him feel like a _child_.  
  
Ireland sighs again, twice as wearily. "Well, you could give it a try, at least," she says. "If not for me, then for Scotland. I know he's just as sick and tired of hearing France and England whinge about it as I am."

 

* * *

  
  
  
In the end, Northern Ireland doesn't try for Ireland's sake, or Scotland's, but his own, just to prove that he can.  
  
Admittedly, he doesn't try very hard, but sitting down in the middle of the small crowd that has gathered to listen to the tuneless warblings of a folk singer when he returns to the function room seems like a kind of victory nevertheless.  
  
He endeavours to appear as amiable and approachable as he can, though that just serves as fresh confirmation that his face isn't just blighted by an unfairly close resemblance to Scotland's own but his brother's unfortunate affliction of murderous intent around the eyes, too.  
  
Not one nation even glances his way, much less attempts to strike up a conversation with him.  
  
Consequently, he widens his smile until his eyes begin to smart. It feels unnatural, like his muscles simply aren't designed to stretch in such a way, and, on the evidence of the faintly horrified look Wales shoots him from across the aisle between their seats, its appearance isn't much better, either.  
  
He gratefully turns it down a notch.

 

* * *

  
  
  
In the blessed lull between the droopily moustached guitarist leaving the makeshift stage  and the threat of the accordion-abusing trio to come, Northern Ireland becomes uncomfortably aware that his nearest neighbour in this musical hell is staring at him.  
  
As Northern Ireland had given up on his painful efforts at geniality some time ago and thus likely no longer looks as though he's being repeatedly kicked in the bollocks by some kind of malicious, unseen force, he can think of only one justification for the intense scrutiny.  
  
"Northern Ireland," he therefore says, in a bid to save Iceland the bother of the same mental arithmetic that Germany had had to perform a couple of hours before.  
  
Iceland's eyes widen a fraction in a way that is equally familiar. They had first (and last) met one another almost fifty years ago, and he's doubtless trying to reconcile the memory of the short, scrawny nation who was still wearing short trousers with the reality of the tall, scrawny nation to whom anything approaching shorts are an anathema because they have knees that look like someone's viciously attacked them with a lump hammer.  
  
"I grew up really, really fast," Northern Ireland offers by way of an apology for have inflicted this cognitive dissonance upon him unprepared.  
  
Iceland blinks slowly. "Yes," he says after another short pause, and then, after a second, holds his hand out to be shaken. "I'm Ísland."  
  
Northern Ireland experiences a moment of uncertainty of his own. Although he's a virtual stranger both to Iceland and most of the other nations in the room, he knows each of them as intimately as England's stories and his tireless chronicling of the minutiae of his life via a camera lens will allow.  
  
He had recognised Iceland instantly, but is unsure whether or not it would be creepy to admit that. On the one hand, he would probably seem wilfully ignorant if he were to pretend otherwise, but on the other...  
  
The other hand appears to have learnt England's etiquette lessons better than the rest of him, as it reaches out of its own accord and grasps Iceland's. His more indecorous brain and mouth, however, can only summon up a weak, "Hi."  
  
That paltry offering receives a nod of acknowledgement but fails to disrupt Iceland's staring in any appreciable way. In fact, it only serves to redirect his gaze, and instead of a puzzled fixation upon his face, it begins to slowly wander down Northern Ireland's body in a way that he would find disquieting had Iceland not distracted him soon afterwards by saying, "You're not wearing your national costume."  
  
"Don't have one," Northern Ireland says, and the lie seemingly satisfies Iceland at last because he quickly breaks the clasp of their hands and turns back to face the stage once more.  
  
Northern Ireland lets out his nervously caught breath in a sigh of relief. He can now tell his brothers, Ireland, France and anyone else that felt obliged to poke their nose in his affairs that he had successfully conversed with another nation, and hopefully the matter can then be put to rest for at least another decade or two.  
  
Beyond the mild embarrassment that usually follows any interaction he has with someone unrelated to him, he feels almost proud of himself.

 

* * *

 

  
  
  
Whilst he and Iceland do not speak another word to each other throughout the rest of the so-called concert, Iceland does roll his eyes in Northern Ireland's direction at every sour note, which emboldens Northern Ireland to share a smirk with him whenever he comprehends a song's lyrics well enough to realise how trite they are.  
  
After the last appalling act has finally shambled off-stage to the accompaniment of a polite smattering of applause, Wales pops up at Northern Ireland's elbow to invite Iceland to eat his dinner with them.  
  
Given the broadness of his smile and the significant looks he keeps shooting towards Northern Ireland, it's horribly evident that he has been observing them from afar, mistaken their sympatico of musical disdain for some deeper connection, and therefore thinks he's doing Northern Ireland a great favour by extending the invitation he is surely too shy to give himself.  
  
Northern Ireland's own look is meant to convey that this idea is, to date, the very worst Wales has ever had and he should recant it immediately, but it's either woefully miscalculated or Wales is too blinkered by the belief in his own munificence to notice it, because it goes unanswered.  
  
The slim hope that no-one would willingly subject themselves to such a dense concentration of his relatives in close quarters when they didn't have to is rapidly and cruelly dashed by Iceland's prompt agreement that, yes, for some inexplicable reason, he would like to be harangued by England about a thirty-odd-year-old fishing rights dispute for the next hour or so.  
  
To his surprise, however, not only does England refrain from so much as muttering the word 'cod' under his breath, he welcomes Iceland to their table with what appears to be sincere cordiality.  
  
Thereafter, his voice climbs into the crisp, clear register that he strives for whenever he's playing at being the gracious host. Normally, Scotland's burr would become increasingly (incomprehensibly) pronounced in reaction to that soaring note, but, for once, his accent remains unchanged.  
  
Wales is still beaming, Portugal's eyes are warm, France pinches his cheeks twice, and then, after no more than a split second to reflect on his actions and reconsider, a third time before slinging an arm around Northern Ireland's shoulders and briefly pulling him in close against his side.  
  
And, for his own part, Northern Ireland is thoroughly and utterly mortified by the reminder that his social ineptitude is so absolute that he can apparently induce raptures in his nearest and dearest simply by sitting next to someone for a few hours and occasionally having the fortitude to make eye contact with them.  
  
As he so often does, he escapes into his food; hunkering down over his plate and letting the conversation that springs up around him wash safely above his bent head, leaving him entirely untouched.  
  
His gustatory absorption is so complete that he doesn't notice that England has been trying to attract his attention until he's repeated his name at least three times (judging by the level of crackling offence in his voice) and jabbed him in his ribs with an admonitory finger.  
  
"What?" he asks after batting the offending digit aside.  
  
"I said," England says in a particularly etching-glass tone, "you're pretty good at cooking, aren't you, North."  
  
He does have the distinction of being able to make a shepherd's pie that isn't likely to poison anyone, which is more than can be said for his brother. "I suppose," he says.  
  
"Well, that's settled, then," England says, clapping his hands together in what appears to be glee.  
  
"What is?"  
  
"I swear you don't listen to even half the words I say." England harumphs. "What's settled is, the next time Iceland here is visiting his consulate in Belfast, you can cook for him. Restaurant food's all well and good, but sometimes you really do miss a nice, home-cooked meal when you're away on business, don't you agree, Iceland?"  
  
England doesn't give Iceland chance to reply before barrelling on with a diatribe about the disgraceful proliferation of microwaves in modern restauranteering.  
  
He talks over Northern Ireland as well when he tries to protest that there would be nothing 'nice' about a meal cooked in his home because his culinary abilities begin and end with non-poisonous shepherd's pie, and a few silent mocking asides will have in no way prepared him to converse, never mind entertain, someone for the entire duration of one.  
  
But then Scotland pipes up in defence of microwaves, Wales equivocates on the subject, and the tide of chatter rises again, bearing him inexorably along with it towards dessert and thence the exchanging of phone numbers, by which time it's far too late, and it would be unconscionably rude to rescind the invitation that has made on his behalf.  
  
Later, staring down at that unfamiliar number on his mobile's screen, he feels slightly betrayed but too dazed by the swift pace of his damnation that his anger at his brothers' behaviour has not yet had chance to catch up with him.  
  
It will come in time, no doubt, when the full and terrible realisation of what he has been condemned to finally unfurls. But, for the moment, he can at least find some consolation in the fact that, before a hard-eyed Norway descends upon them to scoop him up and carry him away from the dreadful clutches of Northern Ireland's family, Iceland looks just as lost and confounded by this turn of events as he feels.  
  
It gives him hope that Iceland will contrive a way to forget the arrangement England had made on Northern Ireland's behalf, and thereafter the promise he'd given to ring Northern Ireland to confirm the details will very conveniently slip his mind, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Northern Ireland/Iceland relationship = all Wales' fault right from the start.
> 
> Another near-four-year-old WIP finished!


End file.
